


Soft

by minorthirds



Category: Miraculous Ladybug, Stasis (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Miraculous Ladybug AU, Pining, very short and very sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13601133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorthirds/pseuds/minorthirds
Summary: Ladybug and Chat Noir.Vier and Dezhrean.





	Soft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astrologians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrologians/gifts), [lettiebug](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lettiebug).



> hey what's up everybody i'm gay!!!
> 
> i didn't include nearly as much in this little oneshot as i wanted to, but it's already way overdue for christmas for lettie and jules... so here you both go! i love you lots, lettie, thank you for the stunning characters and gorgeous story and art of your incredible webcomic!!! and i love you jules, light of my life!!!
> 
> that's all, i'm just really gay. i hope to add to this au in the future, but for now have a little bit of vierdez for the soul.
> 
> enjoy!

Dezhrean leans back in his uncomfortable wooden seat, checks his very expensive Apple Watch, sips his very expensive boba tea, and laments his existence.

Early on a Monday morning, and he’s already in class. The private boarding school he’d attended for the three years prior to traveling abroad would never treat him like this.

The beautiful, sun-bathed skyline of Paris shines at him from outside the full-wall windows on the other side of the room, but his foul mood is only brightened by a single iota; he’s been here for months and, though he would never say it to his father back home in New York bankrolling his senior year in France, there comes a point at which the horizon fades into the background – _especially_ if the graceful point of the Eiffel Tower isn’t part of the picture.

So instead, to dispel the almost-visible stormcloud hanging over his head, Dezhrean busies himself with staring at the back of Vier Aviglon’s head.

The latter is seated in front of him, in animated conversation with the girl in front of _him,_ and whatever they’re going on about in fast-paced French has him waving his hands a little, gesticulating in a sort of innocent grace.

Dezhrean wraps his lips around his boba tea straw and tries to decipher the topic of their conversation, even though his French is still a little halting, still a _lot_ American.

And to that effect, he sort of... loses himself in the rise and fall of Vier’s gentle tenor, with the morning Parisian light falling in ribbons across Dezhrean’s pale skin and Vier’s darker complexion, or at least the parts of him Dezhrean can see from this angle.

Their teacher is running late, Dezhrean notes idly, lowering his gaze to tap idly at his watch again; a shadow stretches across him, and he glances up, eyes steely and prepared to enter into a stare-down with whoever is invading his space –

but it’s Vier, leaning back over Dezhrean’s desk and grinning, his cheeks a little flushed from the conversation he’d been having with Ariadne – oh, yes, that’s her name – and a little closer than he usually comes, something about his class status and polite deference to his peers and something that’s flying in through Dezhrean’s ear, bouncing around his empty skull, and tumbling right out the other ear because Vier is smiling.

At him.

Vier is smiling at him and Dezhrean hasn’t come out of the moon long enough to soften his gaze yet so Vier’s smile flickers, dims a little, and then Dezhrean is blushing and this is a disaster.

“How –” Vier’s voice comes out a little crackly and he clears his throat sharply, “how long do you think we’ll have to wait for Miss Aria?” It’s in slow, measured French, the better for Dezhrean to sort out and conjure a reply to. Touchingly perceptive of Vier.

There’s a traitorous part of Dezhrean that’s wondering _why are you asking **me?** _ but he’s able to quash down the thought before it can show anywhere on his face, and instead he falls into doing what he does best – posturing.

He places a hand on his chest, his wrist flexed, looking positively snobbish.

“Not much longer, I’d hope,” he affects himself with a rudely nasal timbre, “since the beauty sleep I’ve sacrificed to be here is worth more than a week of her salary.”

Vier snorts. Internally, Dezhrean preens, happy he’s been able to provide the amusement Vier was seeking – it’s a little routine they do, wherein Dezhrean pretends to be the American equivalent of some minor noble and Vier his co-conspirator of sorts.

Dezhrean loves it. When Vier’s in on the high of the moment, the high of the joke, he leans in closer to Dezhrean than he does anyone else; not closer than French manners request, really, but.

Dezhrean notices. He notices when Vier holds himself just a little further apart than his peers, always at the fringe of social interaction.

It doesn’t look intentional. Dezhrean knows what intentional looks like, because he’s done it. He does it. He does it so much he learned to push people away before he could walk.

But Vier... looks like a sad puppy sitting in the snow, staring in at a warm and cozy family, whenever their classmates get to pecking each other’s cheeks.

A little nosy, maybe a little concerned, Dezhrean can’t help but wonder why that could possibly be.

Vier’s returned to sitting properly at his desk, preoccupied by their English textbook, and Dezhrean feels a little colder for the lack of Vier’s sunny smile shining on him.

And then Miss Aria arrives with a clatter and a bustle, citing something about a traffic accident on her way, and the day swings into motion, leaving such questions as Vier’s shyness and Dezhrean’s being _smitten_ by him for another time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

By midmorning the “accident” that had held up Miss Aria had become a full-out crisis.

Cordelia, a teachers’ aide in another wing and Dezhrean’s (unlikely) friend, had interrupted their English unit (Dezhrean’s clandestine naptime) with a page over the school’s intercom for all teachers to put on the news.

Not a terribly unusual event, all things considered.

Since only a short time before Dezhrean had flown across the Atlantic, Paris had been plagued with unusual – and terribly inconvenient – breakouts of what seemed to be supernatural activity.

That is to say, Paris is often attacked by supervillains.

A fact that is kept quiet by the French government – God only knows how they accomplish that – as such an announcement to the world could only invite conflict.

Besides. Paris is not wanting for allies. On her side she has two vigilante superheroes who always, _always_ arrive on time and always, _always_ put things back to rights before they vanish into their streetclothes once again.

Ladybug is the hero, the young man clad in red latex and black spots always the first on the scene. And soon after Dezhrean had come to Paris, Chat Noir had joined him, a slim figure in black leather always at Ladybug’s side.

On the news yet neither of the two has appeared; a spider with a woman’s torso is tearing her way through vehicles, looking for someone or some _thing_ while the news anchor rubs her face and spits rapid French faster than Dezhrean can understand it.

Vier raises his hand and asks to be excused to call his parents. Miss Aria grants him permission with a terse nod, still focused on the report.

Dezhrean counts out ten seconds carefully in his head so he doesn’t look suspicious, then excuses himself for the washroom, hefting his shoulder bag with him.

Outside, at the end of the hall before the stairs, Vier is indeed on the phone with his parents as he had said; his soft, hurried Korean sends a pang through Dezhrean’s heart, wondering at the somber tone of the conversation, hoping that everything is okay.

Dezhrean’s going to ensure that that conversation doesn’t have reason to darken.

He locks the restroom door behind himself with a loud _clack_ and that’s when Plagg takes his signal, shoving out of Dezhrean’s Coach bag (a strategic decision; the more expensive the bag, the less likely it is to be taken at school, in his experience) and flying up to Dezhrean’s face in that particular way that his kwami can, without wings.

The little black mascot-looking cat hovers right at the end of his nose and Dezhrean’s eyes cross to look at him; Plagg has his little cat-arms folded angrily, huffing.

“Not today,” Plagg sulks. “Not unless you have some _camembert_ for me.”

Dezhrean rolls his eyes. “You can have some later. I didn’t bring any with me.”

Plagg looks away, his nose in the air.

Dezhrean’s used to the idiosyncrasies of his kwami, but this isn’t the time – his heart is still clenching at the sorrow in Vier’s voice, speaking Korean to his immigrant parents on the phone. _Maybe they can’t understand the news report?_ Or maybe he has cause to call them whenever something (in Paris’ unique definition of _something_ ) happens. Is the spider lady headed for them?

There’s only one way to ensure that Vier doesn’t have to sound that sad again.

And that’s to get his shit together and get his tail over to Ladybug _right now._

“Plagg,” Dezhrean hisses. “Claws out.”

Ten seconds later a lithe form clad in tight black leather is hefting himself out of the restroom window and leaping to the streets below.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ladybug is racing across the rooftops in long, even strides, footsteps confident even as he pushes the phone element of his yo-yo open in his hand.

He’s run across the skyline of Paris enough times to recognize almost every loose shingle. It’s kind of sad, in a way.

“Chat, where are you?” Ladybug exclaims into the microphone as soon as the line picks up, and he can see from the camera feature afforded to him that Chat is also making his way across roofs to the scene. But he’s nowhere in sight and the spider lady is shoving cars aside directly below Ladybug, so he’s not yet arrived.

“Had to slink out of a previous engagement,” Chat purrs, laying the charm on heavy, and Ladybug can feel his face flushing a little; luckily enough he’s winded from the run and his darker-than-white complexion is doing him a favor by not ruddying in response. _Damn him,_ Ladybug agonizes, _for being so charming._

Chat Noir is obnoxiously self-possessed, but Ladybug can’t help but find it endearing.

Not after all the times Chat has saved his ass in defense of Paris.

Every time Ladybug has been knocked prone and found himself gazing up at Chat’s sculpted thighs and _wonderful_ bubble butt...

 _Get your act together!_ Ladybug shakes himself, and frowns into the camera. “Put your paws to the metal, kitty, and we can have this straightened out in time for you to get back to your date.”

Ladybug hangs up on Chat and refuses to countenance the thought that he might be jealous.

After all, Chat would likely only _tolerate_ him if he knew Ladybug’s street identity.

He’s just a lame high schooler. A Korean immigrant – but that happened when he was a baby, so anyone who’d find his _mastery_ of the Korean language _interesting_ would be sorely disappointed to find that he speaks it at a five-year-old’s level. He’s not even _good_ at anything; his only hobby, if one could call it that, is sending cute snail-mail letters covered in washi tape to his younger sister, in boarding school in Nice.

Plus he’s a stickler for keeping the masks _on,_ thank you very much.

 _“Superheroes hide their identities for a reason,”_ he’d told Chat the first time they’d met. _“We can’t compromise our real lives. What happens if Papillon discovers who we really are?”_

Papillon.

The man responsible for the recent uptick in supervillains in Paris, and the reason why Vier Aviglon became Ladybug in the first place.

His spine chills at the memory of meeting Master Fu for the first time, realizing that he’s working _against_ someone in the mission of _protecting_ Paris.

But there’s no time to dwell on that now, he reminds himself, leaping across a span of empty space between buildings and using his yo-yo to wrap around a horizontal streetlamp and swing onto the stretch of roofs a block over as the spider lady turned, using two cars as skates now as she hurries through Paris, snatching children up to peer at their faces every time she passes one.

Papillon is responsible for _this_ because he’s responsible for the akuma and Vier – Ladybug – is going to stop him. With Chat’s help.

Same as usual.

Hopping over another gap with a chimney used as a springboard, Ladybug almost bodily tackles Chat to the ground as he hefts himself onto the same roof at the same time from the street below. Shingles dislodge under Ladybug’s skidding feet and tumble to the ground below to shatter; not that it’s a matter to worry himself over, as the power of his Miraculous would set the property damage to rights once they had finished.

However, Ladybug himself overbalances and almost tumbles down the roof along with them –

but for Chat’s hand flashing out and seizing Ladybug by the forearm, tugging him back up and redirecting his falling momentum, guiding Ladybug straight into Chat’s arms.

“My lady,” Chat says then with a wink, settling Ladybug back down on his toes, as he’d been suspended in the grip of Chat’s muscular arm in the intervening seconds.

Ladybug wants to pout.

But he turns away with poise, barely paying the nickname heed. It’s an alright one – to be expected, anyway, since he’s clad in red spandex peppered with black spots. But sheepishly he runs a hand through his hair, peering down at the road below.

“Nice of you to join me,” he says when he thinks he has a hold on his voice again without it cracking embarrassingly.

“So what’s our scoop?” Chat says, all business, stepping forward to stand beside Ladybug on the edge of their roof, their toes dangling over the gutter shod in their spandex and leather and rubber.

Ladybug thinks hard about what he’s seen. She’s hurried, frenzied, with little regard for anyone but the children she sees, the ones around grade school age... she searches their faces and tosses them away and continues on her destructive journey, checking each of them for – something.

He repeats as much to Chat, with the added epiphany:

“Do you think she might be a schoolteacher?”

Chat’s gorgeous lips purse, his long pale hair tossing in the wind, secured only in a loose braid. “What brings you to that conclusion?”

Ladybug tilts his head, thinking it through. “She’s looking for certain kids around the same age and heading to a specific place... if she doesn’t care about anyone but the kids she wants, maybe they’re in her class.”

Chat shrugs a single shoulder. “Workable enough.”

The spider lady’s left a considerable trail of her wrath through the later morning commute, and it’s not beyond a few blocks before they’ve caught up to her crouching over a derailed bus and smashing her legs through the windows, shoving her mandibles inside, obviously _looking_ for _something,_ or _someone._

“Find everything you’re looking for?” Chat calls down in the manner of a store clerk, perched aptly like a cat on the top of a streetlamp, hands between his feet and his knees splayed.

The spider lady freezes and peers up at him, cocking her head to the side as if hearing someone else speaking – undoubtedly getting orders from Papillon. Probably to the effect of _steal their Miraculouses!_ Or something, judging from past experience.

Ladybug’s yo-yo wraps around the spider lady’s midriff just as she tries to lunge, and she chokes herself on it, clotheslining her front and snapping her chest toward her legs as her momentum pushes her to the mangled frame of the side of the bus.

“Urgh!” she yelps, and the yelling voices in the bus go suddenly quieter as Ladybug’s feet settle straddling one of the windows and he leans down to peer at the people inside.

“Is anyone hurt?” he asks, hand taut on the yo-yo, keeping the spider webbed for the moment.

“It’s Ladybug!” someone calls out from the far side of the bus, totally not answering his question, but someone else takes up the cry with an elated “Ladybug is here!”

And then they’re all cheering, and Vier’s eyes soften under his mask.

“I take that as a no,” he says softly, looking back up –

Just in time to see one of the spider’s legs, wiggled free, plunging straight for his chest.

He throws himself backward, too late as he feels it graze the front of his jumpsuit, but there’s a _clang_ as Chat’s suddenly there, knocking it away with his staff and flinging out another arm to save Ladybug from falling into the bus.

Ladybug rolls quickly out of the grip and to his feet, having lost his grip on his yo-yo; the arachnid has already wiggled free and retreated to the rear of the bus, two of her legs not touching the metal as she holds them in the air.

 _Favoring them,_ Ladybug realizes.

“I am Arachne,” she declares, “and I will have your Miraculous!”

Chat scoffs next to Ladybug, who is straightening up to his full height, not much difference between the two. “We’ve heard that one before,” the paler of the two says. “Not very creative, are you?”

“Raargh!” she responds, lunging forward again the way she had been about to before.

Chat leaps up and away, while Ladybug tosses himself off the bus and backtracks down the street, looking up and down it for clues.

Everything is a mess, he realizes, as Arachne picks Chat to bully and forces him up onto the roof, slashing at him with her sharp spider feet and grabbing for his throat with her two human hands.

Ladybug bites his lip, watching Chat parry one fast strike with his staff – but the other disarms him and sends his staff hurtling to the street below, and Chat himself is stumbling a step backward, his gait suddenly unsteady.

Ladybug can’t hesitate a moment longer.

“Lucky Charm!” he calls, tossing his yo-yo into the air; with a flash of light, it’s conjured up something –

_Huge._

Falling straight back down at him.

Ladybug ducks and rolls out of the way as the trampoline crashes to the ground, still miraculously intact after the thirty-meter fall from the sky.

Puzzled, he looks between it and where Arachne is slowly advancing on Chat crouched behind a chimney, letting his eyes pick out the logical progression of the solution the trampoline presents him.

There are no holds for his yo-yo up there.

Which, he supposes, explains the trampoline, which will get him vertical to that level...

Arachne’s eight eyes can focus on so many things at once...

Ladybug picks out a car with an open window, and Chat’s staff rolling along the concrete near it.

He glances back at the trampoline, wheels in his brain turning.

“Any time now,” Chat mutters to himself, rubbing his ankle. He can’t flee like this, unless he wants to fall to the ground without his staff to save him. What the hell is La—

A piercing _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ rattles Chat almost out of his skin, and he shifts to peek around the chimney to see if Arachne is –

Yep, she’s staring down at the road below, where a car alarm is going off incessantly, all eight of her eyes outright ignoring him and peering down in distant shock.

With a grin Chat starts to slide toward the edge of the roof, pampering his bad ankle and using his good one to grab a foothold on the highest windowsill.

Ladybug is concealed on the far side of the car, using the tilted mirror to see Arachne on the rooftop; she looks away from the car and resumes her advance on the chimney, and that’s when he darts for the trampoline, using Chat’s staff as a pole vault to gain him extra momentum.

The trampoline surface is taut under his feet –

and it launches him up, up toward the roof, letting him hit the surface and come to a rolling stop with Chat’s staff used as a counterbalance to stop his flight.

Arachne’s just noticed the deception, her prey escaped from her (inexpertly spun) web, and she turns toward Ladybug with a shriek. “You--!!”

It’s too late. He’s already swung for the gaudy, obvious watch on her wrist with Chat’s staff, and the akuma escapes it with a whirl of motion. But Ladybug traps it easily in his yo-yo, purifying the innocent little butterfly of its evil and standing over Arachne as her equally evil form dissolves into a young woman with a rumpled blouse and spidery nylons.

“I was hurt,” she explains to Ladybug after he’s done his work with his Lucky Charm, restoring the damage of the area to rights. The young woman’s legs are folded under her on a streetside bench, and her mascara has run in long streaks. “None of my students arrived for class this morning... I thought I had been slighted.”

Ladybug crosses his arms with an understanding but firm air, Chat next to him leaning on his staff for support.

“You should check with your other teachers before you blame the students,” Ladybug tells her. “Maybe an email told them class was canceled, or something like that.”

She sighs. “You’re right... It was probably something silly... I suppose I just didn’t want to be ignored like I’m not worth the time of day. Can you understand that?”

Ladybug’s voice and eyes soften.

“Better than you would think,” he says, to himself as much as her.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Vier returns to the school building, he finds most of his friends scattered around the school just doing cleaning activies.

“Didn’t you hear?” Ariadne says to him conspiratorially. “Miss Aria had to take the rest of the day off. I wonder why.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Vier says, able to brush off his sudden disappearance by making up some drivel about running into the headmaster while calling his family and running a favor for the man.

He drags the broom that had been thrust upon him between both hands and pretends it’s Chat’s staff again.

It’d been like a happy dream to be with him today again, with the month or so of silence from any of Papillon’s evil minions. And to do something with Chat’s weapon himself... Vier can pretend that his hands having touched Chat’s weapon means they’ve indirectly held hands.

He thinks Chat probably has hands as soft as his lips, as soft as his hair both look.

Distantly Dezhrean looks in Vier’s direction, a mopping cloth in his hands, callused from his staff and sore from his scaling multiple walls today.

He hopes Vier won’t ask where he’s been. Wonders what he’d missed.

It’d be nice for Vier to fawn over his twisted ankle, but when he turns to gaze in Dezhrean’s direction, the latter is carefully disguising any pain in his gait, wandering back to rinse his cloth once more, daydreaming about Vier’s soft voice and gentle smile.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [here](http://twitter.com/gayprotagonist) on twitter!


End file.
